


Flexor Tendinitis (Trigger Finger)

by mayakovsky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:02:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayakovsky/pseuds/mayakovsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They know how to entertain him, and at late hours of the night that verge on the morning, he worries about this. Worries how well they know him.</p>
<p>But he isn't bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flexor Tendinitis (Trigger Finger)

Sherlock wakes to find a tube of her lipstick on his bedside table, the color smearing when he glides it across his finger tip, then tosses it in the drawer. He's sick for a week and smiles when he hears a breathy moan.

_If I had kissed you, you'd have been ill for a month._

_Don't be too hard on yourself_ , he types back, _you're not that repulsive. SH_

 

They're like his Hanukkah gifts, small presents given to him over time that might as well have tags on them, _Love, Jim_ or _Irene x_. They have his hand prints all over them, her lipstick marks. They know how to entertain him, and at late hours of the night that verge on the morning, he worries about this. Worries how well they know him.

But he isn't bored.

A floor of office workers die from a poison disguised as natural causes that can't be traced to anything until someone mentions the building had been painted three weeks prior.

Sherlock doesn't sleep for four days and he feels manic by the end, leaping from the cab in front of Baker Street and dancing up the stairs.

 

He spends a day with a laser rifle shooting through the curtain, dancing across his chest when he paces back and forth. He could leave. He could call Lestrade. He could, he could, but he reads the paper and drinks cold tea John left out, and he looks down at the red dot on his lapel. He's reminded of how easy this all is, how easy it is to suck the life out of a body and then ship it off to St. Bart's.

When he retreats to his room, he nearly misses it, but John. _John._

He knows the pain on John's face when he hears gunfire is involuntary, and of the worst sort. John, who has trained his hand to kill a man without the slightest of a twitch.

Sherlock lives in the fire, needs the sudden jolt to his chest when he has a finger poised to pull. It's so easy, just one light tug, three muscle contractions to squeeze the trigger of a gun.

Twenty muscles to smile at Jim before killing him.

John winces when Sherlock shoots the wall and he makes no sound of protest when John takes the gun from him, doesn't even bother to say 'bored'. His apology is swimming in the cup of tea he brings to John.

 

"Isn't it so much more satisfying to _burn_? You waste your time, saving lives that will end eventually - probably by my hand, dear, you realize."

Sherlock feels cold. He craves his coat, his battle armor. Something to hide behind until he can swing back. He needs a gun trained on the unarmed Moriarty to feel as if the playing ground is even.

"Why?"

It's the only puzzle he hasn't solved. The only one he doesn't understand.

It keeps him up for days.


End file.
